


Reverberchitters

by admiralindia



Series: Red Collegiate [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Porn, Roommates, Sexual Frustration, Xeno, caffeinated sollux has a potty mouth, tentabulge, troll vocalizations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/admiralindia/pseuds/admiralindia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you get back from class on Friday, you find Sollux coiled on the living room sofa like a rattlesnake. This doesn’t bode well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverberchitters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harmony283](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harmony283/gifts).



> For Mandy, who requested "Dave/Sollux" and "movie night" on [my tumblr](http://admiralindia.tumblr.com/). I tried to put a weird spin on it.

When you get back from class on Friday, you find Sollux coiled on the living room sofa like a rattlesnake. This doesn’t bode well. Spotting him outside of his room at all is like watching for rare birds. You have to make a conscious effort to sit very still and wait for him to appear. When he does appear, it’s brief and exciting and your camera is never ready fast enough.

 

But here he is out in the open, taking up one hundred and twenty percent of the sofa like he plans to be there for a while. His body is conservatively folded onto one cushion, but that cushion is the middle cushion and his enormous black binder has ruptured all over the other two. The floor is littered with all manner of midterm-related refuse—more papers, a small tub of Nutella with a spoon balanced across the lid, and a mostly empty case of energy drinks. A lone bag of honey mustard and onion pretzels occupies the back of the sofa right next to Sollux’s head, clearly in a position of favor.

 

“Evening, Sol,” you hazard, eying the case of energy drinks and trying to guess how many he might have had in the past twenty-four hours without being too obvious about it. You suspect the worst.

 

“Core curriculum!” Sollux bursts out, delirious with sleep deprivation and chemical energy. He flips the lack binder off the sofa and onto the floor, done with it you guess. You watch him snatch a stack of handwritten notes from the right sofa cushion and rifle through them jerkily.

 

You really want to ask him something like, ‘How many milligrams of caffeine have you consumed and how long has it been since you ate food that is actually food?’ but you’re enrolled in a course about troll culture (because it’s listed with the humanities and that’s hilarious), so you know better. Questions like that look like pale flirting to trolls, and if you’re going to flirt with Sollux Captor it’s damn well going to be the reddest kind of flirting. So instead you ask, “Is there a follow-up to that or am I meant to interpret it?”

 

Sollux holds one bony, quivering middle finger aloft, catching you in the side of the head with the gesture as you turn to leave the room. Trolls require special handling. If you want to save your roomie from catastrophic caffeine overdose and chronic stress without being accused of having a pale crush, you have to do everything in roundabouts. Luckily, your childhood was the definition of roundabout and it has prepared you for this moment.

 

First, you poke your head into Sollux’s bedroom to see if you’re right to assume that the place is trashed. Sol flees clutter without realizing he’s doing it. Last semester, when he didn’t feel that he had time to clean up after himself, things piled up and continued to pile up until eventually he was forced to abscond to the living room for the sake of whatever mental health he had to begin with. Judging by the unbelievable piles of shit that have accumulated on every surface—you can sense that the desk is one deep vibration away from becoming an avalanche—Sollux is a repeat customer. You flip the light off in a case-closed sort of way and continue down the hall to your room.

  
You have something tucked away. Something very special that you’ve been saving for a situation like this. You go to your media shelves and sweep a hideous crow figurine out of the way so you can get at the clear, plastic CD case that it casually guarded. It’s one of those cheap, anonymous deals that everyone used to buy in bulk back in high school when CD burning was still a thing. You were more careful about hiding the original case, obviously. It wouldn’t do for twenty-four karats of cinematic gold to be discovered before its time. Smirking a little at how great this night is about to be, you change into a pair of Victoria’s Secret pajama pants—one of the pairs with “PINK” written across the ass—and head back to the living room.

 

*          *          *

 

“What the fuck, Dave?”

 

A bag of microwave popcorn had just landed in Sollux’s lap, necessitating some frantic grabbing to keep oil off his notes.

 

“It’s popcorn. You may be familiar with the concept.”

 

““Yes, I can thee that ith popcorn, Dave,” Sollux snaps. “I heard you making it. But _what the acthual fuck?_ ”

 

“Tonight just became movie night. We are going on a cinematic adventure and now you have provisions for the journey.”

 

“No and hell no. Midterms are next week and I have an ethay.” But you’re busy messing with the settings on the television and you’re only half-listening. Your clear plastic CD case is balanced inconspicuously on top of the PlayStation, waiting to be loaded.

 

“Go put on your comfy pants,” you suggest absently. “Western civilization can wait.” You crawl over to the couch and start helpfully gathering the troll’s notes, alternating the piles from portrait to landscape to portrait so you won’t mix them up send Sollux into a tailspin when he finds out. Sollux tries to kick you in the head.

 

“I never told you that I wath thtudying Wethtern thiv!” Sollux cried triumphantly. He’d been trying for several months to force admissions of guilt from you, convinced without any proof apart from paranoia that you snoop through his belongings when he isn’t around. He assaults you again with his bare foot.

 

You deflect the blow with Sollux’s binder. “The black binder is history of Western civ, the red and blue ones are computer science, the green one is biology, and the white one is calculus.”

 

“You admit to going through my thingth, then?”

 

“I admit to looking over your shoulder while you study and unintentionally learning your color codes.” You stuff your stack of papers into the binder and go for the ones on the sofa.

 

“Quit it!” Sollux tries feebly to bat your hands away while also gathering up the papers on his other side before you can get to them. “There’th no time!” He snatches his binder from the floor and starts stuffing papers into it like he won’t ever see them again if he doesn’t get them into the binder fast enough. When he catches you looking at it, he clutches it to his chest and glowers threateningly.

 

“Okay, you can keep that,” you compromise, raising your hands in a peaceful sort of way. “Just don’t open it during the movie.” 

 

“How about I jutht thudy here while you watch it. It literally maketh no differenthe to you. We can even turn off the overhead and I’ll uthe a book light.”

 

“Sorry, no can do. I’m not equipped to deal with a dead roommate this weekend and you probably aren’t equipped to be dead, so lets block two hours out of your day for a movie and then I’ll leave you alone. Now get out of the middle of the couch. We’re doing this.”

 

“No,” Sollux says firmly. “We are not doing thith. I’m buthy.”

 

“Then I am doing this by myself and you can sit there and look in from the outside, wishing that you had joined me when you see how awesome it is. Give the popcorn back. You are undeserving.”

 

“Fine!”

 

“Fine.”

 

You stare at each other.

 

 “You might as well take these,” You offer the notes to Sollux, who stares at them, and then at you, in disbelief. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” he says, taking them from you and tucking them into the binder, still frowning like he can’t quite wrap his head around a defeated Dave.

 

Which was exactly what you were aiming for. The very second he closed the binder, before it could find its way back into his protective embrace, you snatch it off his lap and run for it.

 

Sollux tries to come after you, of course, but he has the unfortunate disadvantage of not being Bro. You intercept him easily with the box of energy drinks, kicking them into Sollux’s path just as he’s getting up from the sofa. One of his feet goes through the open top and he’s down, falling right onto the Nutella. “Damn it, Dave!” he yells after you, but it’s too late. By the time he recovers and limps down the hall to your room, you are already standing outside it with the door locked. The binder is secure on your bedroom floor where you tossed it, and you’re waiting for him with your hands behind your back.

 

“I’m willing to negotiate.”

 

“Let me gueth,” Sollux snarls. “You want to watch a movie.”

 

“Top of the class.”

 

“Well fuck you because I’m not going to enjoy it,” he says peevishly. “And I’m not changing my fucking pants, either.”

 

Sollux whirls and makes his retreat.

 

*          *          *

 

Like two warring parties, you have claimed opposite ends of the couch, entrenched for the long haul. Sollux’s rage is palpable, bubbling from his person like a miasma of bad vibes. His arms are crossed over his chest and his legs are pulled up over those, making a double barrier between himself and you and the television and everything else.

 

When you watch movies, Sollux normally likes to wrap himself up like a burrito in a blanket or three, tucking himself into the corner of the sofa with his head on the arm and all the end pillows stacked up on top of him. You figure that it’s a makeshift pile thing—the troll equivalent of changing into pajamas and curling up in bed to watch a movie. Right now, though, Sollux is having none of that. He’s in the corner as far from you as he can get, sitting straight up. The nearest blanket is in that weird uncomfortable chair across the room and he’s ignoring the end pillows entirely, obviously determined to hate this experience as much as possible.

 

You play the DVD.

 

“What kind of a film is thith?” Sollux asks. He looks like he regrets showing interest or talking to you at all, but you can’t blame him. Who could resist asking about a menu screen this terrible? Nobody, that’s who. It looks like the kind of low-budget romantic garbage that Karkat gets excited about—not your usual fare, certainly. Sollux knows you’re up to something, but he hasn’t figured out what it is yet. His curiosity is piqued. “Ith thith one of your bullthhit irony thingth?” He asks, unable to hold on to his sulk in the face of such oddity.

 

You make a noncommittal sound. “It’s a troll thing. You know that class I’m taking? I picked this up for research and I thought you could help me interpret what’s going on.”

 

“I’m not a thpokethperthon for troll culture,” Sollux snaps. “If you wanted one of thothe, you thould have athked Karkat to watch it with you. He’d eat this thit up.”

 

You shrug.

 

*          *          *

 

Sollux’s head is finally on the arm of the sofa. He put it there five minutes into the film when he realized that he would have to endure two more hours of the worst acting ever. What’s worse, the actors on screen show every sign of being sincere, which is probably aggravating Sollux’s tendency for secondhand embarrassment. You hear him sigh miserably when the characters on screen—a prejudiced blueblood and an earnest rustblood—reach the romantic confession scene. They’re roommates, thrown together by Circumstance, and the blueblood is gradually warming up to the idea. A couple minutes later and they’re sealing their confessions with tender kisses.

 

“What kind of thtorytelling is thith?” Sollus complains. “They met ten minuteth ago.”

 

The kissing develops rapidly into sloppy makeouts. You can see the trolls building momentum in an inevitable way even before the shirts start coming off.

 

“No! I don’t believe thith is happening! They’re doing thith ten minuteth into the movie and I’m thupposed to buy thith thit? Are the writers theriouth?”

 

“There’s only one writer.”

 

They’re tearing their clothes off frantically now. Sollux holds his face in his hands, so he misses the shot where the rustblood’s pants come off. The actor isn’t wearing underwear and that weird slit thing that the bulge comes out of is starting to split apart. The camera follows an intimate trail of rust-colored genetic material as it slides down the inside of a perspiring thigh.

 

Hearing sounds continue past the average time of a cinematic sex scene, Sollux looks up to see what’s going on. He’s just in time to catch an eyeful of the blueblood’s bare groin, where the tip of a bulge moves just inside its sheath.

 

“JEGUS!”

 

*          *          *

 

“Oh my god,” he keeps saying. “Oh my god. Oh my god. I can’t. I cannot.”

 

One of the end pillows is in his lap now, wedged between his chest and his knees. He’s clinging to it like a lifeline, using it to cover the bottom half of his face, which you can tell, even in this light, is bright yellow. His eyes glow dimly with some kind of deep, internal alarm.

 

He’s not thinking about school anymore.

 

*          *          *

 

Both of you have stopped talking. Sollux’s agonized mantra of “oh gods” has petered into a silence that neither of you wants to break. You refuse to look directly at each other.

 

*          *          *

 

Sollux starts getting shifty the second time the actors have sex. At first you mistake it for a normal weight transfer. He’s been sitting in that outrageous position for a while now, so it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he would want to move. _Your_ ass would be going to sleep too. But then it happens again and suddenly you’re paying close attention to every move he makes.

 

He’s kind of twisting at the hips, like he doesn’t want to put his legs down even though his pants are giving him trouble. If he wasn’t such a stubborn shit, he’d be wearing pajama pants right now, you think smugly. You wonder if trolls can control their bulge’s emergence or if it happens whether they’re wearing tight pants or not.

 

Now _you’re_ wishing for jeans. A pillow goes casually into your lap.

 

In your mind you can see the future spinning together, promising both of you the worst kind of social mortification. Neither of you will be able to stand up to turn the movie off when the credits roll. You can see it now exactly how it will be later—each of you sitting pokerfaced in the dark, keenly aware of your mutual problem but unwilling to acknowledge that you’re experiencing it. You will never discuss it again.

 

When you watched the film before, alone, it hadn’t had this effect on you. You’d laughed. The acting was atrocious, the scenes were overplayed. It was sloppy work. Watching it with Sollux beside you changed everything.

 

*          *          *

 

The trolls on screen make these deep, reverberant chittering sounds as their bulges twine together. It’s a sound you’ve only heard in this one film, and something about the tone or the quality makes you feel instinctively that it is probably a sex-only noise. The camera is graphically close, missing nothing, and on the sofa beside you, Sollux is worked up to the point of discomfort. He’s restless, fidgeting in small ways and trying to be nonchalant about it, shifting against his clothes.

 

The rustblood tosses his head back and reverberchitters at the blueblood, only it’s Sollux who responds. For a second, you’re confused because the sound overlaps with the one the blueblood makes. But you realize that you just felt the bass tones through the sofa.

 

Sollux makes a shocked little gasping sound and jerks his head away from you before you can catch the look on his face.

 

Woah.

 

This is getting so out of hand. You know that he’ll try to stick it out for as long as you do, that he’s stubborn even as his ego crashes and burns, but you’ve been leaving the television alone because there’s really no good way to turn it off. Turning it off at any point before it ran its course is admitting to one thing or the other. Either he turned it off because he was getting awkwardly aroused or he turned it off because he’s concerned about how awkwardly aroused Sollux is getting. There’s no good way out of this, no one hundred percent preservation of dignity. Sollux doesn’t look like he wants to lift his head up any time soon, so you take it upon yourself to go ahead and pause the thing.

 

Sollux doesn’t react.

 

You rake a hand through your hair. “Shit, I’m sorry, bro.” Contrary to popular belief, you _can_ apologize. You just don’t do so lightly. When Sollux doesn’t reply, you feel compelled to start adding things to your statement. “I didn’t intend for that to happen.”

 

“What _did_ you intend?” Sollux asks, lashing his head around and sort of baring his teeth at you.

 

You wouldn’t normally answer a question like this—at least not honestly—but you just heard the guy’s special sex noise so you felt like you owed him something for that, even if your mortification couldn’t compare to his.

 

“I thought the shock would stop you thinking about midterms,” you say reasonably, countering his emotion with its balanced opposite. “Dude, your head was going to blow. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea and think I was pale for you or something.”

 

You are suddenly being wrenched down the sofa by the ankle, and it must have been a long day or something because you have no idea how Sollux just physically relocated you from the far left cushion to the middle one using one arm. He must be stronger than his scrawny build suggests. Your face is now full of angry, spitting troll and his hands are fisted in the lapels of your shirt like he’s about to take you outside and beat the squishy human pulp out of you. “I don’t think you’re _pale_ for me,” he’s saying, “you utter, fucking moron.”

 

And then he assaults you with his face.

 

It takes you a minute to realize that what he’s trying to do is kiss you, because it feels more like he means to exact some kind of hideous oral revenge. Jesus, you’re going to be bruised tomorrow from the nose down. He has you now by the back of the neck, so you can’t escape if you planned to try, which you don’t. He isn’t even doing that hesitant backing off thing after the first kiss—that double-checking “did I guess right” pause. Instead he’s sliding the tip of his pointy yellow tongue into your mouth and giving you the option to bite it off if you aren’t interested.

 

You think you could get into this assertive thing. You decide to let him know by sucking his tongue into your mouth, not merely welcoming whatever he wants to do to you but also saying hell yes, make yourself at home and feel free to raid the fridge at your leisure. Sollux makes a startled sound and releases the front of your shirt.

 

It’s much better without his balled-up fist between you. It’s easier to slide your arms around him and drag him into you. You can feel him quivering beneath his clothes, charged with sexual frustration and five zillion milligrams of caffeine. His heart is going like it thinks it’s on speed and he’s growling, “You abtholute thitbag,” like he’s finishing a sentence that began in his head. He presses his mouth to yours, but resurfaces immediately to add “Rotten, terrible sporkfucker” to the list of things that you apparently are. The list is actually not that unattractive when he recites it in that intense, snarly way.

 

He’s still venting the effects of the film, thrusting you backwards onto the sofa and coming down hard on top of you. You duck your head to avoid hitting it on the arm of the sofa and it collides with Sollux’s forehead instead, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hands have found your hair and he is taking full advantage of the handhold to wrench your head out of his way while he runs his pointy troll teeth down the side of your neck. You think you might say, “Oh shit,” but you’re not sure if that only happens in your head.

 

Sollux pulls back and glares down at you, but you think that now it’s probably more intensity than anger.  “If you’re not fluthhed for me, now would be a good time to thay tho.”

 

You roll your eyes and pull the troll back down by the horns, loving that minute spasm that rocks through him when your fingertips brush his scalp just at the base of one of the large horns. You make a mental note to explore that later. Right now he’s doing something marvelous with his hips that’s making you go completely stupid in the head, rolling into your pelvis and kind of ... undulating. When he pauses to kiss you, he’s straddling your thigh and you can feel something _move_ just beneath his fly. You suck in a breath because shit, you don’t even know what to make of that.

 

“Off,” Sollux suggests urgently, tugging at your belt loops for clarification. Not that you need any. You’re thinking the same thing.

 

You don’t bother with little cutesy lovers’ flourishes like helping each other out with your pants. You don’t even fully _remove_ your pants. Yours make it over about half of your ass, but Sollux doesn’t have to do much beyond open up the front and let his bulge do its thing. It’s just peeking from its sheath when you catch your first glimpse of it, but without any restrictive cloth in the way it slips out immediately like a weird mustardy eel. And then it splits.

 

It _splits_.

 

Holy god, your roommate has had this crazy double bulge in his pants the whole time you’ve known him and you never knew. He’s straddling your waist and looking down at you, watching you watch his bulge like he’s waiting to be graded on it. It’s smaller than the bulges you’ve seen in books and on the internet, probably a little stunted on account of the mutation, but you don’t know how to rate troll parts like a troll would rate them so all you can do is think it’s great. It seems to move under some power of its own, slipping languidly over your stomach and leaving clearish yellow trails to cool in the air. Your shirt has ridden up and one of the bulges seemed pretty intent on your navel, poking into it and pressing, then repeating, like it can’t figure out what was going on there. Aww.

 

“Sollux,” you say finally, when you feel that you’ve looked enough. “Your freaky alien dick is unironically adorable. Now _do_ something with it, please.”

 

Sollux smirks at you in a self-satisfied way and leans down to kiss you some more. His stomach traps his bulge between you and he hisses, flicking his hips against you. He’s still too rough with your mouths—all tension and teeth—but you take him by the face and pull him back just a little and show him. He’ll pick it up eventually. He’s already doing better.

 

You’re not sure how sex with a troll will work. Humans only have so many orifices to work with and you aren’t in any fit state of mind to try explaining anal to Sollux. His bulge figures that out for both of you, though, when he wiggles down to line everything up. The two halves twine loosely around your erection and then tighten, apparently deciding that a human dick is enough like a bulge to work with. That was the last coherent thought you had for the next several minutes.

 

It surprises you—the intensity of the sensation. You suspect that Sollux’s bulge can do things to you that no human could dream of accomplishing. The way it pulses around you in varied patterns. Your back arches exquisitely, momentarily trapping your wrapped erection between your bodies. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep any sound from bubbling stupidly from your mouth. Sollux doesn’t even bother, doing that rumbly chitter thing deep in his chest. You can tell that’s where it’s coming from because you can feel it when he leans down to cover your mouth with his.

 

There’s a little space left between you and he’s rocking into and out of it, letting your bodies meet and part in a gentle waves. His breathing is shuddery and ragged and perfect and it’s too much. You have to slip your arms around him and trap him close to your body and hold on for dear life. He tucks his head into the crook of your neck because everything is too blinding and intense for kissing, and then you’re falling over the edge and making that sound you were trying not to make but you don’t even care because Sollux comes crashing down after you and it’s all very wonderful and distracting.

 

He seems to last forever, spasm after spasm racking his little frame and producing _more_ genetic material with each wave. There’s no way the couch is getting out of this unscathed. You think there’s probably a legitimate puddle down there somewhere. You can feel it spilling over your abdomen and down either side of you and it’s kind of hot but also kind of alarming. The spasms eventually taper off into a generalized shuddering, and a chill spreads across your pelvis as Sollux’s bulge draws back into his body. He rolls off of you, just barely, to wedge himself between your body and the back of the sofa.

 

You reach around to the floor and feel around until you find some of the pillows that swan-dived off the sofa in all the excitement, and one by one you swing them back up, piling them onto Sollux in a tiny mound. He shoves his top leg under yours and turns his head into your shoulder, grinning.

 

You hope he falls asleep. He needs it. 

**Author's Note:**

> O//////////O


End file.
